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He went solitary and starlit through the sleepfast countryside, trotting soundlessly on his softworn shoes, past dead houses and dark land with the odor of ripe and humid fruits breathing in the fields and nightbirds crying in the keep of enormous trees.
Somebody has been fuckin my watermelons.
He’s damn near screwed the whole patch. I dont see why he couldnt of stuck to just one. Or a few. Well, I guess he takes himself for a lover. Sort of like a sailor in a whorehouse.
The crimes of the moonlight melonmounter followed him as crimes will.
He went among vendors and beggars and wild street preachers haranguing a lost world with a vigor unknown to the sane.
He looked down at himself, caked in filth, his pockets turned out. He tried to swallow but his throat constricted in agony. Tottering to his feet he stood reeling in that apocalyptic waste like some biblical relict in a world no one would have.
he was vaguely amazed at being alive and not sure that it was worth it.
It dont say it, but I reckon Lazarus might of wept back when he seen himself back in this vale of tears after he’d done been safe and dead four days. He must of been in heaven. Jesus wouldnt of brought one back from hell would he? I’d hate to get to heaven and then get recalled what about you?
You told me once you believed in God. The old man waved his hand. Maybe, he said. I got no reason to think he believes in me. Oh
Well, like this friend of mine. Went up to this girl and said I sure would like to have a little pussy. No shit? What’d she say? She said I would too. Mine’s as big as your hat.
